Emily Rose Miller
is fresh scars inflicted by myself
and a bandaid
rash on my hip next to a floating tampon
string trailing like a lure
into my prickly
bush. It is marinating in the too-hot bathtub filled
with the disappointing remains
of a four-dollar
bath bomb, gone just as quickly as I lost
my self-esteem. It is plucking
of once-dried-now-sticky-again blood
off the surface of the water
and wiping them
on the stained porcelain to be cleaned later.
It is mistaking the scab on my leg
(from shaving, of course)
for a bug and watching the skin on my stomach
roll as I slouch up in panic.
It is nails
just a tad too long and too jagged to pleasure
myself with, and not having
the energy to bother
with the uncomfortable dildo I hide under my bed.
It is the itch of my sunburned arms
and the tan
line I scowl at across my crotch and across my
boobs. It is wishing I’d have
strength to gouge my skin again with the razor
I balanced on the edge of the tub
for this very reason.
It is staring blankly at my browned nipples,
instead, wishing they wouldn’t sag
quite so much.
Emily Miller is a Saint Leo University graduate where she received her BA in English with a specialization in creative writing. Her work has been published in The Dollhouse Magazine, Parhelion Literary Magazine, Red Cedar Review, and Inklette Magazine, among others. This particular poem is her boldest and most honest yet and she is thrilled that it has found a home at Parliament Lit. Find Emily online at emilyrosemiller.weebly.com, on Instagram @actualprincessemily, or in real life cuddling with her five cats.